The Streets of London
by Wind-in-the-Sage
Summary: Late into a rainy London night, an old soldier remembers the last remnants of a life gone by and the friends he used to have.


Inspired by Mary Hopkin's cover of "The Streets of London."

* * *

The rain fell in a steady, predictable way, and it comforted the old man sitting on the park bench. He only had a wide-brimmed hat to keep the water out of his eyes, and that was enough for him.

The streetlamps shining on the corner illuminated a path of falling rain and made it shimmer even this late at night. He'd been sitting here for nearly an hour, only shifting once or twice when his hip complained of the wet and the chill. Now he pulled his old coat a bit tighter and breathed in with weary lungs the scent of this great, dirty city of his being washed clean again as always happened. Washed of yesterday and all the yesterdays before.

The smooth and deft, though now creaky, fingers in his pocket clutched again at the single paper that he'd crushed several times since getting it this afternoon. As well as being damp now, it had a few drops of tea on it from the corner cafe he'd spent the evening drinking at.

A car rushed by, stirring up the content puddles and racing streams. The cars followed one another at even intervals as they had been, though they were getting less frequent. He was surprised at how little traffic there was, really, but this wasn't the most populous area anyway. They were in such a hurry, the people and the cars, whenever they passed, wherever they were going. He sighed quietly. He used to be in a hurry too, but today, he felt, the last of his hurry had left him.

The other object in his pocket lightly touched his finger, as if prompting him. He closed his fingers around it and pulled it out, the rain immediately wetting it, as if offended he'd hid it so long. The metal was smoothed after such a long time, but he knew clearly what it said, though it was in German, and a smile touched the corner of his mouth at the memory. Then it faded. He was the only one who could remember where this came from now.

The medal glinted as he put it back in his pocket. The only medal that would ever award them for their works. For a long time, they had their memories, but even those were fading now. This was what brought a drop of moisture to the corner of his eye. He lifted his eyes to the buildings across the park and the steet in front of them, seeing a young girl walking quickly under an umbrella, looking straight down, passed by a cab lit well enough inside to see the passenger, a man in a suit. No, he didn't really blame them for not remembering. They were never supposed to know anyway. That had never really bothered him until now. That was always just how it was, and at least they had each other.

He brought the crumpled paper out for probably the thirtieth time today, and looked at the words again, not bothering to squint and read them, for they were now familiar enough.

"Father passed in his sleep last night. The whole family was already here and he wanted us to bury him quickly, so by the time you get this, the funeral will have passed. You can visit if you like."

He folded it over, hiding the words, his next breath a little shakier. He wasn't sad exactly. It was always coming, but now the heaviness of its happening had laid upon him and had been getting slowly heavier over the hours. He grunted at himself and shifted again as he put the letter back in his pocket too. The sound of the rain filled his ears. It reminded him of that long night of theirs when, he thought, his friend was bravest. He couldn't remember the looks on their faces anymore when the mission was finally over, but he remembered the tense worry of waiting and how amazed he was when it all went off okay.

He knew no one else cared anymore how happy that feeling of safety was, how proud he'd been, how adamantly the Colonel had argued years later over his men getting medals, even if it were a private affair. The government hadn't cared then, and he doubted they even remembered them now. Everyone had Very Important things to do, of course. Except perhaps him.

Now he found himself wishing his friends had gotten the recognition only he knew they deserved. It felt so wrong now that there was not even a scrap of metal remembering what they'd done. Well, he supposed that wasn't quite true.

He stood up finally, leaning heavily on his cane and refraining from a groan at the stiffness that had so deeply set in. He straightened, looking at the cold city around him, the noise of its activity hardly audible. The rain was graciously covering the noise, ignoring the forgetful city so unaware of the reason for its continued existence. It followed him a bit further into the park where he let his cane drop to the ground, then, with great care, got down to his knees, ignoring the pain. He leaned over and dug his fingers into the dirt, feeling more lonely than ever, but letting the rain cry its pity for him.

He worked at the soft ground, and it didn't take long to make a small hole. Even after all these years, it was still easy to dig with his hands. Once you've got it, he supposed. Then he reached his muddy hands into his pocket again and removed the medal and the letter. He looked at the medal lit by the signs, windows, and streetlights nearby, then opened the paper and read it one more time.

"You can visit if you like." He didn't think he would.

He buried them together, then took his time to pull himself back to his feet, slower and heavier than ever. He made his lonely way home.

The rain would surely stop by morning, and whatever existed in yesterday would be washed away and lightly forgotten.


End file.
